


Rise Not with the Sun and Sing

by Karin (ramoudia)



Category: 100 Days of Sunlight
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Meet-Cute, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29634339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramoudia/pseuds/Karin
Summary: There’s something addictive about the feeling of being understood. Intrinsically, inherently.Tessa Dickinson is blind, but more than that, she's a writer. Weston Ludovico has lost his legs, but more than that, he's in love with the girl at the coffee shop. All he needs to do now is reach out.
Relationships: Tessa Dickinson/Weston Ludovico





	1. Tessa: Welcome to the Blackwood Beanery

Walking into crowded coffee shops is a lot like submerging yourself in a bathtub: warm and all-encompassing. Suddenly, I'm surrounded by the din of soft conversations, amplified in volume by their sheer number; the scents of caffeine, cinnamon, and vanilla; the warmth of inside after half an hour in the November cold. 

I don't know how big this coffee shop actually is. This is the tenth time I have come here, to the Blackwood Beanery, and I couldn't tell you what you'd see. I could tell you that the tables are made of a worn-down wood that feels nice under my fingertips and that the barista who usually serves me has a German lilt to her voice. I could tell you that the floor is tiled, foot-wide squares in glazed ceramic, and that rubbing your sole against them causes a slight squeaking sound. I could tell you that there's an unobstructed, straight path from the door to the counter, and that the edge of the counter feels cool -- it's metal, I'm sure, I've tapped my fingernails against it and heard the _ting ting ting._

"Tessa!" the barista says when I approach. I smile in greeting and give an awkward wave. I still don't know her name. "Getting your usual?"

"Do you have anything else that's just as sweet?" I ask, reaching a hand out for the counter's edge. _Ting ting ting._ "I might widen my horizons."

The barista lists her suggestions. I pick one at random, a hot chocolate with caramel and whipped cream which sounds incredibly promising. The barista confirms my order and I reach a hand out into the space to my left, making sure it's empty before stepping into it and making room for the next customer in line. 

"Tessa, huh?" The person who steps up to fill the vacated space has a deep voice, male, slightly raspy. I place the counter at my back, turned outward toward the coffee shop, and nod. I flick my thumb over the handle of my white cane, tapping its other end against the tiles. _Tap. Tap. Tap-tap._

"And you are?" I prompt when he doesn't share. I waited patiently while he ordered (black coffee, the psycho) and at least ten seconds have passed since. This stranger isn't big on manners, it would seem. 

"Weston," he says. I nod again. "I see you here a lot."

"Can't say the same."

Weston huffs a laugh. He sounds genuinely amused -- good. Too many people get nervous, unsure about how to respond, as if I'm going to be offended. Having people walk on eggshells around you gets old real fast. I know very well that I'm blind, and it is far from my biggest problem. 

Chief among my current problems is an upcoming exam on American literary movements of the 1800s. My satchel feels heavier just thinking about it, as if the hundreds of minutes of recorded lectures have physical weight. 

"Are you a uni student too?" Weston asks. 

"Literature," I tell him. 

"I'm doing urban planning. Hey, does that mean you're good at English?"

"I wouldn't say I'm too shabby," I say, because modesty is becoming or whatever. "I can conjugate all my verbs."

"Tessa, your drink," the barista says behind me. She says it softly, which I appreciate; when we first met, I startled at how suddenly close she was. I turn and let her place the drink in my waiting hand, thanking her and immediately giving the top a cat-lick. Whipped cream and caramel goodness. Yum. 

"You here to study?" Weston asks, and I nod. I carefully move my finger above my drink, feeling for a straw. None. Hmm. 

"Would you mind grabbing me a straw?" I ask. 

"Of course," Weston agrees. He moves around me, to my left. "Just reach your hand out." He drops the straw into my outstretched palm, then stands there quietly while I take my first sip. _Heaven._

"Weston? Black coffee?"

"That's me."

I don't step away just yet. It feels wrong to do so without saying goodbye, and for some reason I don't want to say it sooner than I have to. 

He has a nice voice. 

"So, Tessa," Weston continues. Yes, a very nice voice. Especially when he's saying my name. "I have a suggestion to make, feel free to say no, but." He takes a breath before he continues. "We could study together? Just, since you're good at English and my professor keeps complaining about run-on sentences in my essays, and I really need to up my GPA. And I could… quiz you?"

I smile into my hot chocolate. Cute. And it definitely beats the Siri-like voice that I usually spend my study sessions with. 

"Sounds good," I agree. "Would you mind leading me to a table?"

"Yeah, of course," he agrees. "Uh, how?"

"Extend your elbow," I explain. I retract my white cane and stuff it under my left arm, holding my drink in that hand, and reach out my right hand to hold on to his arm. "Warn me if there are any steps or anything I could stumble on."

I usually ask Barista to find me an empty table, which can be difficult when I'm in such a packed environment. I much prefer this, I decide, fingers wrapped around a solid arm cloaked in a flannel-like material, coarse under my fingertips. Perhaps I hold on a bit tighter than strictly necessary, but that is nobody else's business. 

Weston guides me carefully, warning me about the two steps leading up to a hitherto unexplored section of the shop, pulling out a chair for me and making sure I get seated properly. 

"What a gentleman," I tease. 

I think a blush can be heard in a person's voice because nothing else could explain the way Weston says "You deserve it." It sounds like honey, smooth and warm, and clings to my skin. He drops a laptop onto the table and says "So. The need for diverse perspectives on urban planning."

"Riveting stuff." The taste of honey doesn't leave my tongue as he begins to read. It doesn't even fade when he uses the word 'literally' twice in a five-word sentence. 

Interesting.


	2. Weston: Down Basswood Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again, for a second time.

Tessa Dickinson has long, brown hair, a wide, toothy smile, and long, thin fingers. She wears large, black sunglasses and tilts her head this way and that when she’s thinking. When she’s trying to think of the perfect way to phrase something, she taps a fingertip against her full bottom lip. She snickers at admittedly poor attempts at wit. A small silver charm rests in the hollow between her collarbones, in the shape of a bird. She tugs at it every now and then as if to make sure it’s still there.

When we parted three days ago, just outside the doors of the Blackwood Beanery, she asked me if I’d be there on Thursday. I said yes, maybe at 3 PM. Tessa nodded and said “Perhaps I’ll see you there,” shifting on her feet, head turning minutely to chase the sound of a car horn coming from down the street.

It’s Thursday. I spent ten minutes stressing about what to wear before I realized that it really doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s not actually a date, is it? Just another study… date. Another study  _ session. _

Nevertheless, I’m stressing.

I’ve mastered the art of getting ready in the morning. I can leave the apartment less than ten minutes after my alarm clock blares, which is absolutely necessary given that my alarm goes off around twenty minutes before my first lecture at eleven AM. There are very few steps involved in the process. In descending order of importance, I have to put my legs on, get dressed, brush my teeth, and grab a snack bar on my way out. 

Without putting my legs on, I can’t leave bed at all. Sometimes, I stay in bed for hours just because I don’t want to put my hands on the  _ stumps.  _ Other days, I don’t even care, going about it as effectively as a worker on a factory line. Today, unfortunately, is not the best of days.

I don’t even consider getting out of bed until 2:30 PM. The idea of going about my day as normal, walking around without feeling the ground under my feet, is overwhelming. But I try to focus more on who I’m about to meet up with than how I’ll get there. Doing that, I’m able to go about it mechanically. 

Pull the sock-like liners over the stumps, up to the upper thigh. Slide your legs into the sockets of the prosthetics, gently, gradually. Pull the tight-fitting prosthetic sleeves up so that they cover the liners and continue halfway down your metal-and-plastic legs, lest your feet fall off when you try to walk. 

Her dress was red, fitting loosely over a long-sleeved, collared blouse and black leggings. She wore a navy coat, cinched at the waist. She looked pretty.

_ Done. _

With that out of the way, it’s easy to pull the nearest decent-smelling items of clothing on, make a quick detour to the bathroom, and grab a granola bar -- and make a quick detour back into the bedroom to put on some cologne.

Anyway.

The street housing the Blackwood Beanery, Basswood alley, is crammed full of small, independent stores. The ground is cobblestone, old and worn down and used entirely by pedestrians, and the facades of the buildings look nearly as old, some fortified with wooden beams. The coffee shop occupies the bottom floor of a building halfway down Basswood, its golden lights illuminating the street outside through tall, wide windows. I glance up at the sky, dark and gray. When I look back down, I notice her.

She’s just on the other side of the glass, sitting on a stool facing the window. She’s got an earbud in one ear, chin resting in her left-hand palm, idly tracing the wood of the counter with her right.

I force myself to stop staring at her and actually step inside the shop. She’s just inside, to the right of the door, so I walk up to her and say “Hi.”

She startles, turning around quickly. “Weston?”

Fuck. “Yeah, sorry.”

Tessa waves a hand dismissively and gets up. “Don’t worry about it. Just be less sneaky next time, yeah? And say your name.”

Next time.  _ Next time.  _ I hope she can’t tell that I’m grinning when I say “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

We get our orders quickly, the same ones as the last time we came here. The barista, Lena, gives me a knowing look and moves her eyes from Tessa to me, to Tessa, back to me. I stare back at her until she smirks and turns to prepare our drinks.

“I’ll cover it,” I offer, and place my card onto the counter.

“You don’t have to,” Tessa says. She’s turned away from the counter, out toward the coffee shop. She’s got a similar, but not identical, pair of sunglasses on today.

“I know. But I got way more help out of you than you did out of me last time,” I reason. She concedes, an amused smile taking a hold of her mouth.

When Lena slides our cups over the counter, I offer to carry both our drinks and extend my elbow when Tessa reaches for it, making sure to walk at a leisurely pace and navigate carefully between the tables. “You really are a gentleman,” she murmurs, leaning slightly into my arm as I lead her to the same table we sat at before.

At least she won’t notice the way my face is burning.

“So, what’re you working on today?” I ask once we’ve gotten seated. 

“I was hoping you could help me with something,” Tessa says. I watch her dig through her satchel and accept the laptop that she holds out to me. “It’s open to a Word document, right?”

“It is,” I confirm. The document is five pages long, multiple long paragraphs, and starts off with  _ Long time no see! School has been given me down lately. _

“I was hoping you could return the favor on those corrections I did,” Tessa says. I watch her take a sip of her hot chocolate. A small dollop of cream catches on her upper lip but she licks it away quickly, smiling in my general direction. “It’s an email for a friend of mine. I used speech-to-text and punctuated and formatted as well as I could, but it’s a bit of a hassle to figure out where it might’ve misheajklrd me.”

“I can go over it, see if anything needs changing,” I offer, because that’s what she is asking. Immediately, I replace  _ giving _ with  _ getting. School has been getting me down lately. _

“Thank you, Weston,” she says. “I appreciate it. Anything you need help with?”

“I sorta need someone to quiz me on macroeconomics,” I say. “I, uh, typed a bunch of questions into a document, and I installed an add-on that’ll read them out loud.”

I trade her my laptop, watching her trace the side of it to find the headphone jack and connect her earbuds to it. She listens to the first question and recites it for me.

“Which equation represents the relationship between GDP and the four major expenditure components? God, I don’t know what the hell that means.”

“Y equals C plus… hmm.” It should be  _ effect _ here, not  _ affect. _ “There was an I in there somewhere.”

Time passes quickly when you’re having fun. I never expected macroeconomics to ever exist in the same sentence as the word fun, but somehow, it has. An hour passes less like its usual molasses and more like water in the Niagara falls because Tessa laughs louder the more incorrect my answers are (and perhaps I knew the answers to some that I got wrong, but that’s nobody else’s business). 

Eventually, I reach the end of the Word document, and my eyes catch on the last little portion.

_ Oh please, my dear nightingale,  _

_ rise not with the sun and sing; _

_ My heart still calls out every night _

_ for what I lost -- my everything. _

_ Let me rest for longer still, _

_ I can’t yet stand your merry cheer; _

_ Let’s wait until my bruises heal - _

_ give me please another year. _

There’s an ache inside my ribcage and it feels much the same as the one that kept me in my bed for hours this morning.  _ Let me rest for longer still… _

“We should keep doing this,” I say before I can think better of it.

There’s something addictive about the feeling of being understood. Intrinsically, inherently.

Even though she doesn’t know that she does.


End file.
